The flame of old is kindled with a burning passion.
The hopes and dreams return in a blinding fashion.
The watcher sees through the flaming fields of smoke,
beyond the veil of the heart which in countless pieces broke.
Words fall short and stiff like a coward on the edge of a cliff
Words alone are lost in translation with the heart’s frustration.
Yet what is found is pure revelation and a pristine sensation.
The archetype beyond mere passion is laid bare and clear –
fleeting fragments of dreams beyond horizons and oh so near.
It was never true that love’s direction was a mere individual –
it was a character of imagination and dreams residual.
With eyes half-closed and a heart on a funeral pyre, ...